


A Little Something For The Pain

by Edoro



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Hypnotism, M/M, Mind Control, Oral Sex, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Xeno, not how moiraillegiance works
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-09
Updated: 2012-04-09
Packaged: 2017-11-03 08:22:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/379316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Edoro/pseuds/Edoro
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gamzee hands Karkat a blank consent check and he decides to cash it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Little Something For The Pain

Your name is Karkat Vantas and you are absolutely sure you’re going to hate your past self for doing this. You can almost feel yourself being your future self and hating your past self right now, even though you’re still your present self.

You hate present you a little bit for even thinking that.

You look down at the troll kneeling between your spread knees. Gamzee looks back up at you, eyes half-lidded and open and trusting, like he’s a wiggler too young to feed itself and you’re his lusus come home with another fresh chunk of steaming offal, or maybe like you are actually the god you claim to be and you are literally, physically incapable of doing anything wrong.

You reach out and cup his cheek, claw tips pricking lightly against the side of his face, and he leans into the touch with a contented little hum, eyes still on your face. He’d stay there forever, probably, looking at you with that lax smile, loose-limbed and obedient and waiting for you to give him an order. It’s pan-blisteringly stupid, it really is, but you feel like if you back out now you’ll be letting him down. Like now that he’s here, on his knees between your legs and with his hands resting lightly on your thighs and that dumb animal look of trust on his face, you have to tell him to do something. 

Once, curious about how being so thoroughly under someone’s control could be considered anything even close to ‘good’ or ‘enjoyable’, you’d asked him what it felt like when you put him under. He said that it was like being draped in a warm blanket, everything going heavy and fuzzy and soft, and then being shown the key to paradise, so simple it snatched all the breath out of his lungs like the slickest of motherfucking thieves, which was: do whatever Karkat said.

You think he’d probably trust you like this even if he were fully in control of his faculties and not under some kind of weirdo bullshit hypnosis. That thought terrifies the everloving piss out of you, so you shove it away.

“Gamzee.” Your mouth is dry, your throat tight, and your tongue feels heavy in your mouth as you say his name. He shifts subtly, coming to attention, still loose and relaxed but also focused. His regard can be intense, a fact you would have found laughable a sweep ago but now are frightened and amazed by in turns. You hadn’t thought anything about him could be intense, until you’d seen him looking at you right after you’d papped him down from a psychofuck murderclown frenzy and his normally distant eyes had seared into you like suns. He’s less intense like this, but there’s still that smothering sense of the _full weight_ of his attention. You could set his feet on fire right now and he wouldn’t even feel it unless you told him to.

“Best friend?” His voice is thick as syrup.

The hand on his cheek shifts to cup the back of his head, drawing his face in where you want it. He moves with you instead of simply being moved, not quite limp but completely unresisting. His nose bumps against your hip, just above your thigh. The skin of his cheek is cool and smooth against your leg. Sometimes you almost forget he’s a highblood, but you’re reminded every time you touch him and feel that alien chill, so cold it almost feels wet. This is one of the ways you two are excruciatingly goddamn perfect, you think to yourself in your sappier moments - he’s cold enough to douse your heat, dim your flames, draw away a little of the fever you burn with. Gamzee draws you down to a simmer and you keep him warm enough not to freeze.

You realize that you don’t actually know how to ask for what you want. Gamzee’s still looking up at you, eyes rolled halfway back into his head because he’s not moving his face from where you put it, endlessly patient. He’s waiting like a good boy for you to give him an order and you don’t even know what to say. You can picture it in your mind and you shiver at the image, beautiful and, yes, _depraved_ , but you can’t _say_ it. You feel like a wiggler telling bucket jokes.

“Suck my bulge,” you say, flushing at how completely _crass_ it is. You’re no snooty upper crust hoofbeast fetishist who pails in his pants whenever someone says ‘damn’, but this is a romantic fucking situation, not an illegal homemade porno uploaded off someone’s _phone_. ‘Suck my bulge’? That’s the best you can come up with? You are the world’s most flagrantly incompetent pile of shit and you can’t believe anyone’s ever put up with you.

Very abruptly, as soon as Gamzee starts to move, you realize how appallingly poorly that request was phrased and grab one of his horns before he can actually try to suck your tender bulge into his glass-trap of a mouth. 

“Don’t actually put it in your fucking mouth, jesus, do I look suicidal? Do you think I want my bulge sawed off by the clusterfuck of scalpels you call teeth? It would be like sticking it in a sock full of broken glass and then hammering it against a wall for good measure.”

So he stares placidly at you, head tilted back a little from how hard you’re gripping his horn, and you realize you need to actually articulate what you want. With your words, like a big boy.

“Just...lick it. And my nook. And maybe suck on it if you can do that _without putting it in your mouth_.” You have to be very precise with him, because he is somehow, despite how utterly impossible it sounds, even stupider like this. “Got that?”

“I’m motherfucking hearing you, best friend.” 

You tug his head forwards again and wait, every muscle wound tight and tense, for him to touch you. His tongue flicks out against the skin of your seedflap, which is still not fully retracted or really even halfway retracted. It’s cool and wet and you jerk involuntarily, even though you were expecting it, giving his horn an accidental wrench.

“Sorry,” you mutter, letting go of it. Your hand settles on his head, right between his horns, and you sort of aimlessly wind your fingers in his snarled hair. “Keep going. Don’t stop unless I say to.”

Gamzee slowly explores your entire groin with his tongue, starting near the bottom of your nook slit and working his way up and from the outside in. You don’t know if it’s deliberate teasing or if he’s just being overly literal because you’ve hijacked most of his powers of higher mental function, what few he hadn’t fried out with sopor or had knocked out of his head as a grub, but you do know that it’s agonizingly slow and you have never felt anything so good. You’ve never actually felt your seedflap retract the way it is right now, the skin drawing tight to expose your nook by hot, slow degrees. Maybe it’s because you’re always much quicker with yourself, or possibly because you’ve never been this focused on the area.

Once your nook is fully bared he begins licking it, long strokes right up the center of it with his tongue just barely dipping in between the folds. To your eternal mortification, you start shuddering pretty much as soon as the tip of his tongue touches you. You try to play it off like it’s just the temperature contrast, a cool part of him against the hottest part of yourself, but you see right through your own half-assed deception.

Your bulge unsheathes itself almost embarrassingly quickly. Gamzee, damn him to whatever juggalo fucks consider ‘hell’, completely ignores it, intent on investigating every fold and crease of your nook. Your bulge squirms in the open air, and in the absence of anything to twine around or bury itself in, curls and wiggles against Gamzee’s face, leaving thin red smears of fluid. You almost can’t even look at that, almost can’t take how gut-wrenchingly _obscene_ it is, especially with how he’s still looking right up at your face even as your bulge writhes against his cheek and his tongue dips into your nook.

You’ve never actually had a bulge inside of you, but you imagine that it would feel a lot like Gamzee’s tongue. Long, wet, and muscular, shimmying back and forth like a snake, rubbing against your walls and the ridged underside of your bulge. The noise that escapes you is so undignified you lose a little respect for yourself.

The hand on Gamzee’s head is clenched tight in his hair now, pulling hard enough it has to hurt. You force yourself to let go and grip the base of his horn instead, pushing his face harder into your crotch and trying to push his tongue deeper into you. He moans softly, either from the fingers around the sensitive base of his horn or the force you’re tugging on it with, or maybe both, the sound reverberating against you in a way that feels so good it has to be illegal.

“Oh, sweet skullfrondling tentacle monstrosities, how are you so fucking _good_ at this?” It has to be at least twenty kinds of completely wrong that Gamzee has any skill at this, much less the ability to make your knees turn to water and your entire body shake like it’s about to fall apart. It wasn’t like you’d expected this to be like jerking yourself off, but you hadn’t imagined that having your moirail tongue-deep in your nook would be this mind-blowing, either. Right now you’re sure you had a really good reason for not wanting to do this, but you’ll be fucked if you can remember what it was, and you’re pretty sure past you was just a colossal idiot.

It’s hard to move, but you manage to sort of weakly rock your hips against Gamzee’s face, pulling him against you with the hand on his horn. Once you get a halfway decent rhythm going, the pleasure doesn’t jolt through you so much as thrum steadily up your spine, like a slowly rising tide that bears you up on every crest and carries you through every trough, and you relax a little. You let your head fall back and your mouth fall open, high chirruping noises escaping you, and allow the sensation to overtake you. 

It’s jarring when Gamzee pulls away. You gasp out a curse, hips rolling up into the empty air futilely, and glare down at him as best as you’re capable of right now.

“I don’t remember saying sto-ohhhfuck, oh fuck, _oh_.” Your complaints turn into nothing more than a high-pitched whine as he finally turns his attention to your neglected bulge, tonguing up along the sensitive ridges of the underside. It curls against his mouth, trying to press into it, dumb animal muscle so caught up in seeking pleasure that it completely ignores the very terrifying threat of Gamzee’s teeth, which could charitably be described as ‘snaggly’ and more accurately called a gnashing fucktrap of pain. They’re halfway to even rows on the bottom and a complete mess on the top, thin needly seatroll fangs bristling out around the broader, serrated land-dweller teeth, and you’d swear that there aren’t three contiguous teeth that actually point the same way. 

They’re very, very sharp, and also cool and slick against your bulge as it squirms over them. Gamzee holds very carefully still while it explores his mouth, tongue curled around it but otherwise letting it do its own thing. His eyes bore into yours with that same calmly trusting look he’s had this whole time, hazier now with a definite look of lust but still saying that he’s yours. Yours, yours, wholly and only and forever yours, any way you want him. You think Equius could learn something about giving himself over into a superior’s control from this, the way Gamzee, who can barely string two sentences together on a good day when the cerebral hemorrhaging subsides and he’s only mildly instead of profoundly brain damaged, can give himself to you completely without even saying a word.

You know you should pull your bulge out of his mouth so he can get to properly licking you, but you can’t move. You’re just waiting for the first stinging line of pain to sear across the unbelievably tender flesh, but for now it just feels good, curling and sliding against Gamzee’s teeth and gums and tongue, wiggling even over the sharp tips of his teeth with not much more than a faint discomfort that’s close enough to pleasure. 

“You’re gorgeous,” you say, shocking yourself with it. You didn’t even realize you were thinking it, and the fact that you were and still are thinking it _about your moirail_ makes all kinds of uncertain butterflies start fluttering up in your ribcage, but it’s true. You just scrubbed him down to the layers of skin that weren’t coated in filth and slime residue - you have never known a troll so bad at getting the slime off of themselves, but you don’t say much about it because you know it’s because he used to lick it off and eat it and you try not to make him feel bad for having been an addict, not when he’s doing so well now - and then pulled him out of the ablution trap fresh and wet. He hasn’t had time to put his face on and lets you see him bare.

His bare face is flushed delicately purple, all the way down to his neck, and his thin lips are slick and wet with spit and the filmy red fluid from your nook. It’s smeared over his mouth and chin and even, oh fuck, on his _nose_. His eyes are lust-heavy and lidded and at first you just think dumbly, again, that he’s gorgeous, and then it hits you like a punch to the gut: he likes this.

You never thought he disliked it, because while you do know that Gamzee would shove pins in his own eyeballs if you asked him to, you’re reasonably certain he wouldn’t explicitly tell you that you can do something to him he doesn’t want. You only asked five thousand times, and then a few more just to make sure, to the point where even he was starting to look a little exasperated when he kept saying that you could do what you wanted to him, make him do whatever you wanted.

But you didn’t expect him to like it. He clearly does, though, and you don’t think it’s just that he’s hypnotized to enjoy following your orders. He _wants_ it, he _likes_ being on his knees with your bulge wiggling down his throat, likes your fingers carding shakily through his hair, likes - yes, likes the way you touch his horns, eyes slipping a little farther closed when you twist the hand fisted around one of them. Your breath is caught in your throat, lungs flat and still, heart stuttering on this new revelation. You don’t know how to handle it.

“You like me making you let me fuck you,” you say, half questioning, all idiotic. You’ve said more graceless things, in your sleep maybe, but you think you can be forgiven for not being able to make a completely coherent sentence when the tip of your bulge is busy making a run for your moirail’s esophagus. 

He can’t really talk or move his head without inflicting some serious lacerations on you, but he gives the tiniest twitch of a nod and a low, throaty moan of affirmation that makes you shudder as it rumbles through you. Your bulge is deeper in his throat than you thought was even possible for it to go and the way it closes up and vibrates around you is nothing short of pan-shatteringly incredible.

You’re suddenly very, very worried about him gagging, though, so you reach down and gently pull yourself out of his mouth, letting it twine itself around your fingers. Gamzee takes this as an invitation and leans in to start licking, tongue sweeping fairly indiscriminately over your palm and fingers and bulge. You can’t quite bring yourself to mind, though.

You sort of stroke yourself while he licks at whatever he can reach, smearing your entire hand with spit,and your breathing starts to go ragged and your stomach starts tightening up again. You’re not nearly as upset the second time he abruptly pulls way. You don’t know how you want to finish but you are pretty sure it’s not in your own hand, with Gamzee lapping at you between your fingers, so instead of saying anything you just sit still and watch him.

You’re definitely surprised when he nudges your hand aside. It’s the first time he’s actually moved his own hands off of your thighs, where his claws have left red pinpricks from digging in too hard. You let him push your hand away, though, and take you in his own, cupping your length in his palm. He lowers his head sideways to lick you, tongue curling around and against your bulge and hand squeezing just a little, and it’s basically the greatest thing anyone’s ever done to you. Maybe. You’re not sure if anything will beat the way Gamzee tonguing your nook felt, but you’re willing to be generous.

He grips you just slightly too hard and moves his hand slower than you would. It would be unpleasant if you were doing it on your own, but it’s nice when he does it, a reminder that you’re _not_ touching yourself, that there is another troll between your knees with his hand and mouth on your bulge.

Gamzee lips at you, teeth pressed together, running his mouth wetly up and down your bulge. Everything he does is agonizingly slow, every movement like he’s swimming through something thick, but the sensation from it builds surprisingly quickly. It sneaks up on you, the same way this whole thing did, which you guess makes it pretty fitting. It doesn’t feel like a whole lot but soon enough you’re squirming again, knees squeezing his shoulders and stomach tensing up and your whole body wiggling back against the chair, trying not to rut up against his face and only barely managing, too turned on to care how embarrassing the way you’re whimpering and chirping is.

You feel yourself sweeping up towards orgasm and you’re torn, because it feels so amazing that you never want it to stop, but you also think that if he stops right now and drags it out any longer you will actually kill him. You can’t tell whether or not you said that, but you think you might have because just for a second he smiles at you and then his mouth is back on you, those cool lips and wicked fucking tongue, his fingers and palm stroking you inexorably on towards climax. You seize up when you come, nails digging into his scalp and knees slamming into his sides and your whole body arching so hard you’d slide off the chair if it weren’t for Gamzee holding you in place, one long hand splayed out firmly against your stomach while the other holds and works your bulge.

You don’t say anything, no strangled moaning cry of his name. The only sound that escapes you is a long, low, sighing whine, that empties out your lungs and chest and stomach and everything, until you fall back in a twitching heap of barely connected limbs. You feel empty, you feel hollow, like you’ve had all your vital parts scooped out and now you’re an empty shell waiting to crumble in on itself.

Gamzee doesn’t stop touching you until your bulge starts twitching like a seizure at the contact, and then he lets go of it and winds both arms around your waist and shuffles forward on his knees to rest his cheek on your stomach. He’s breathing hard and you can smell his arousal, the reek of sex pheromones filling the air around him, and you want to take care of that but it’s about all you can do to drop a listless hand on his head and pet him.  
“Good boy,” you manage to get out. You still feel weird about the way he lights up when you say it, the way you can feel him smiling against your stomach, but he needs it and you’re going to give it to him. Besides, he _is_ a good boy, the very best you’ve ever had. “You can touch yourself,” you add after a long silence.

One of his arms leaves your waist. You can feel him doing it, the way his muscles shift as he pumps his bulge and the puffs of breath against your stomach when he moans or sighs. You thought that you were noisy, but you’re nothing compared to the constant flow of moaning and chirping and low, sexy little noises that Gamzee makes. He gets louder and deeper and more urgent very quickly, and it sends a sharp aftershock shudder through you when you realize that he was already halfway to coming just from getting his mouth on you.

The motion of his arm stops and he turns his head, still pillowed on your stomach, to look up at you. “Karkat,” he says, voice ragged with need.

You stare uncomprehendingly for a second and then, when you get it, you have to try twice before you can say anything. This is not part of the script, as far as you’re aware, and you’re not entirely sure how you feel about Gamzee using you to satisfy his apparently new thing for being bossed around, but you can’t deny it makes a hot shiver run down your spine and you’re not going to leave him hanging.

“Come.” The sound he makes is uncomfortably close to a sob. He’s not still like you were, either. His whole body jerks and shudders and twitches, the hand on your back curling tight in the fabric of your shirt. You know without seeing that his toes are curled, too, and for some reason the image of Gamzee curling his toes while he comes just fucking guts you. If you could get hard again this quickly you would be.

You give the both of you a moment and then push yourself to your feet, pulling him up, and stagger over to the nearby pile. You put your foot down on the subject of horns and other paraphernalia and consequently have a pile made mostly of soft things with a framework of scrap metal that is actually really comfortable to sink down into. You pull Gamzee into it with you and cuddle up against him, twining your legs with his and tucking your head under his chin. You take his hand and lick it clean, trying not to think about how incredibly filthy you feel or how it doesn’t taste bad, really, just sort of sharp and unpleasantly cold, and then make yourself start purring.

The sound catches in your chest a few times before it really gets going. After a few seconds he joins you too, and you barely have time to even think about how much you’re going to hate yourself later before sleep gets its claws into you.


End file.
